


Snapshots

by thedeadparrot



Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: America, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-12
Updated: 2009-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadparrot/pseuds/thedeadparrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Press a button, step outside, new planet.</em> Stuart and Vince in America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to queenzulu for the beta.

Their first month in America, Vince buys a pack of Marlboros off a dingy petrol station in Nevada.

"It's the American West, isn't it?" he says as they fly down the I-80 later. "Seemed like the thing to do. I hate the taste, mind you, but it's like a requirement, yeah?"

Stuart shakes his head. "You are so, so very sad," he says, an amused smirk on his face, though the sunglasses hide his eyes.

"Fuck off," Vince says back, lighting a fag in the Jeep, even though it tastes like shit and Stuart always gets pissy when he does that.

* * *

It snows their second week in New York, huge white globs that stick to the pavement, and somehow Stuart ends up with Vince at Rockefeller Plaza, which is packed full with of tourists, the kind who make Stuart's skin crawl and make Vince feel like he's amongst kindred spirits. Vince, of course, rents a pair of skates, despite his complete lack of experience. Stuart, of course, decides that he'd rather not and sits on one of the benches that surround the rink, rubbing his hands together so they won't freeze.

Out on the ice, Vince looks happy, his eyes bright and his smile wide, even as he falls on his arse like the prat he is. Stuart can almost admire that sort of fearlessness of Vince's, the way he can do anything because he assumes he's got nothing to lose.

"It's brilliant," Vince says later, steadying himself on the railing, laughter in his voice. His cheeks are flushed a soft pink; whether it's from the cold or the exercise, Stuart can't tell. "You should give it a go," Vince continues. He looks sixteen again, too young. There are white flakes caught in his hair.

"I'd rather not," Stuart says, because he'd rather freeze his arse on this sodding bench than go _skating_ in _Rockefeller Plaza_.

Vince shrugs. "Suit yourself," he says before taking off again, almost mowing over a six year old in a bright red anorak on the way. Vince looks embarrassed and apologizes profusely to her mother, his face going even redder. Stuart just grins, pleased.

* * *

There were a lot of things that stopped mattering to Vince when he left, like paying the bills on his flat, like remembering to set his alarm clock so he'd make it into work on time, like worrying about whether this night's shag had an ABBA fetish or a tendency to film himself having sex and then show his later shags the tapes (and that was more about Dane than Vince had ever wanted to know), like the Tuesday deliveries, like mortgages on houses he didn't even live in anymore, like dinner reservations with Australian boyfriends, like Graham's persistent brown-nosing, like wondering whether or not he and Stuart would ever get that shag.

It wasn't that _Stuart_ stopped mattering, because he'd always been the center of Vince's universe and now more so than ever, but Vince's universe seemed so much bigger, so much more than Canal Street and Harlo's and Manchester. It was the wide Midwestern plains, grass up to his hips and a rumbling storm on the horizon. It was the smell of sea salt on Cape Cod, watching the waves crash against the rocks. It was the thick too-hot air of Miami, the slow sway of palm trees in the wind. In the face of all that, whether or not he'd ever shag Stuart seemed small, insignificant, barely worth the brain cells needed to think about it.

Especially since Stuart was right there, at his side, day in and day out. That was the important bit, the one that counted. Shagging Stuart would be an afterthought, icing on the cake. It would never be worth more than the comfortable quiet between the two of them in the car on a long stretch of road, never worth more than watching Stuart sneer at the World's Largest Rubber Band Ball, never worth more than the feel of Stuart's hand in his, the two of them facing the world together, unafraid.

* * *

All through the Carolinas, they eat every meal in greasy small-town diners. Stuart hates every second of it, but it's either that or McDonald's, whose food somehow manages to be worse.

Vince eats it all without the tiniest hint of complaint, probably because even though Hazel's a fantastic mother and person, her cooking was never one of her best traits. Stuart complains loudly and at length, though always out of earshot of anyone who could possibly slip rat poison into his food while he's not paying attention. Truth is, though, is that Stuart's used to the food by the time they reach Georgia, and sometimes, when his stomach's rumbling, he imagines the too-greasy hamburgers and salty fries.

The waitresses always take a shine to Vince without fail, seduced by his accent and perfect manners. It occasionally annoys Stuart enough that he'll make his gestures of affection more obvious, a hand on Vince's elbow, a showy kiss on Vince's cheek, an affectionate ruffle of Vince's hair. Just blatant signals of what Vince _is_ and what he isn't.

This method doesn't always work, much to Stuart's chagrin, which just goes to show that there's a fag hag born every minute.

* * *

It's true, what Cameron said, about the clubs being the same everywhere. They're in Phoenix or New York or Cleveland or San Francisco, and Vince can't tell which, because it's the same beat, the bass thudding in his chest, the same lights, flashing red-yellow-green, the same men, preening, strutting, trying to cop off for the night. The same Stuart, always on the hunt.

Vince is on the balcony, watching Stuart work, because it never gets any less amazing, no matter how many times he's seen it happen. It's all so familiar, the smug curl of Stuart's smile, the slinky sway of his hips. The bloke doesn't stand a chance.

Contrary to popular belief, Vince has never been jealous of Stuart's shags. He's always known just how transient they are, how little an impression they make on Stuart in the long run. Vince would never want that for himself. He'd take being hated by Stuart over that.

Stuart has good taste; his target's tall, nicely muscled, with the sort of chiseled jaw that Vince has always fancied on blokes. He has a nice smile, which Vince sees as Stuart whispers something in his ear.

Vince is expecting that to be that, for Stuart and the shag to disappear into the toilets or perhaps the Phoenix/New York/Cleveland/San Francisco night, for this night in a club to be the same as it is everywhere, for this story to play out the way it always does, but then Stuart looks up, stares right at Vince with his impenetrable dark eyes, and it's not the same expression Stuart was wearing when Stuart was trying to rope Vince into threesomes. It's something different.

But then he turns back toward his shag, and time resumes its normal course, and Stuart cops off. The same old song. Vince does find a nice bloke later with soft blond hair and really fantastic mouth who's willing to blow him in the toilets, so the entire night isn't a waste.

* * *

There are things that Vince does in the Jeep that drive Stuart absolutely barmy. Like reading every billboard out loud, extra commentary not optional ("Visit Wendy's -- Exit 22. That's a bit far, isn't it? What if you're feeling peckish right about now? It's practically six exits away. Who could be bothered to wait that long?"). Like fiddling with the radio constantly, fingers held over the buttons, flipping from one station to the next and inevitably ending up on the one with the worst music, no matter where they are. Like rolling down the window when it's warm enough and sticking his hand outside to feel the wind between his fingers, which always struck Stuart as an excellent idea if one wanted to lose an arm. Like the way Vince will tilt his head, and the evening sun coming through the windshield will strike his features just right, and for a moment, just a moment, he'll look like everything Stuart's ever wanted.

* * *

Atlantic City:

Stuart's got a few too many drinks in him and far too many chips on the table. Vince can't see his hand, but he's not entirely sure he wants to, to tell the truth. He folded his own hand ages ago, but Stuart must have a bloody royal flush in his hand to justify the smug grin he's wearing.

Vince has never felt comfortable in casinos; the sound of coins rattling and the way everything's painted gold makes him itchy, eager to leave. (Stuart explained once that it was all about making people think of money, psychological tricks to rope people in, get them to gamble.) Stuart's good at casinos, though. So good at them that Vince is convinced that luck isn't actually about random chance as much as it is about sheer bloody-mindedness. Stuart's always had that in spades.

Like now, for instance.

Stuart's studying his cards, considering. There's a hint of a smile on the corner of his lips. Vince has this sinking feeling that he knows what Stuart's going to do before he does it.

"Stuart," Vince says, using the warning voice that Stuart insists makes him sound like Hazel. This is his job, after all, to hold Stuart back, because Stuart's never learned to do that himself.

Stuart just ignores him, the way he has a tendency to on days that end in 'y'. His smile gets wider. "All in," he says to the bloke sitting across from him, pushing his stacks in carelessly, like he can't be bothered.

Vince, who has been rather proud of his new-found confidence and 'fuck you' attitude, cringes and resists the urge to cover his eyes.

Thankfully, Stuart's opponent decides it's not worth the risk and folds, much to Vince's relief. It comes as no surprise when all Stuart shows is a pair of kings.

* * *

Stuart's not sure how he ends up with his tongue in Vince's mouth in a dodgey motel room in the middle of nowhere (Idaho, maybe, or perhaps Montana, one of those northern, boring ones), but he's pretty sure he'll be able to hear the whole story later from Vince. Right now, he's distracted by Vince's hands, tight on the back of his neck, the soft soap smell of Vince's skin, so familiar because it's been sixteen fucking years and Vince still uses the exact same brand.

He feels like he's drowning in his own desire, swallowed up, consumed by it. Sex has always been like that, and he needs Vince to stop this right here, because Stuart will go through with it, if Vince doesn't stop them, if Vince doesn't pull the both of them back from the point of no return, if Vince doesn't do what he always does, if Vince doesn't say "no" and turn away.

Vince just pushes him back onto to the bed, covering Stuart with his body, their mouths still pressed together, and when he finally pulls away, they're both panting, and Vince's eyes have taken on a pleasing glazed look. It almost takes him by surprise, the way Stuart just _wants_ him in the same way he wants all of them, but it's tangled up in something bigger and more painful. This feeling could hurt him if it wanted to.

"Hiya," Vince says, and there's stunned awe on his face, the same look he gets when Stuart's just done something moderately nice for him.

Stuart's always loved and hated that expression on Vince, and he doesn't want to think about it, so he undoes the buttons of Vince's trousers, says, "So how about finishing that wank?"

It's a comment that could end this right here, right now. Vince is inconsistently touchy about things. But Vince just smiles, soft and fond. "About time, yeah."

And then they're kissing again, and Vince's hard cock is pressed up against Stuart's, and it's good, so very good, even as it's terrifying. When Stuart finally gets his hands in Vince's pants, Vince makes a soft gasp, his entire body stilling over Stuart's. Stuart bites at his ear. "Get to it," he says, undoing the buttons of his own trousers, because clearly Vince needs the assistance, and also because Stuart's sure he'd have to kill someone if Vince doesn't touch him _right now_.

Thankfully, Vince gets the idea, a strong hand wrapping around Stuart's cock, so fucking perfect, and Stuart moans.

It's quick, after that, desperate and fast, their bodies slick with sweat, their foreheads pressed together, intensely intimate. When Vince comes, he turns his head and groans against Stuart's neck, and when Stuart comes, he closes his eyes.

Afterwards, as they're falling asleep, drowsy and languid, Stuart looks over at Vince, his face smoothed over with sleep, his body curled up against Stuart's, and Stuart thinks, _Sixteen fucking years._

* * *

There was a new boy at school, but Vince hadn't seen him yet. He'd heard loads about the new boy, though. He'd heard that that the new boy was Irish, from Dublin, accent and everything. He'd heard that the new boy didn't like anyone, not at all. He'd heard that the new boy refused to talk to any of the girls who already fancied him, refused to go with the other boys when they played footie. It was all just idle gossip to Vince. He couldn't care less about any of it.

Vince was a bit late for class one morning -- his mum had accidentally slept too late -- and everyone was gathered at the doorway, heading inside, when she dropped him off. Vince didn't like to make eye contact with anyone, especially since so many people took that as an invitation, so he kept his head down, his eyes fixed on the ground.

But then there was a prickle at the back of his neck, like someone was watching him, and when he finally glanced up, he saw that someone was. It was someone Vince had never seen before, with curly, dark hair and sharp, angry eyes. Must be the new boy, then, the new Irish boy.

Their eyes met, and Vince felt a shiver of understanding, of recognition, and he didn't want it to be true, even though it was, so he looked away. He looked away far too late, however, because the new boy was coming up to him.

"Stuart Jones," the new boy said, by way of introduction. "Saw you looking."

Vince felt a blush coming on. "I wasn't," he said, willing Stuart to just _go away_.

"Wouldn't mind so much if you were," Stuart said, and Vince hadn't known anyone could just going around _saying_ things like that. It was a heady, exhilarating rush, because _Vince_ would never be able to say that to someone, not like it was nothing.

"Oh," Vince said, suddenly feeling foolish and brave. "I'm Vince. Vince Tyler."

Stuart grinned, eyes bright, and Vince grinned back, because it was their secret, this thing they both knew about each other. It was theirs, not just Vince's. For the first time, Vince didn't quite feel so alone.

* * *

Another city, another club. To Stuart, it's beautiful. They're all beautiful. It's not just the easy drugs or the even easier sex, but it's really about the energy, pulsing through the crowd of bodies. Stuart loves it the way he's loved almost nothing else in the world.

Vince is dancing with him, smiling, laughing, and they look like twats, worse than twats, but Stuart can't bring himself to care. In the dim light of the dance floor, everything becomes _more_, more gorgeous, more intense, more everything.

The men here are better-looking than most, and for this moment, with the music coursing through him, Stuart loves them all, wants them all, and he knows he could do it. It would be so easy, just a smile, just a whisper, and they'd follow him anywhere. He could do it, he knows.

Vince's hands are on his shoulders. His tongue's sticking out, a round white pill sitting on it, and Stuart can't imagine wanting anyone else more. He leans in, taking the E into his own mouth, but not before giving Vince a proper snog, slow and thorough. He can have this, where the old rules don't apply, and Manchester is thousands of miles away. He can have Vince.

As the E hits his system, he closes his eyes, sinking into the throbbing of the beat, into the energy that weaves all around them. A light passes over him; he can feel it against his eyelids. He could lose himself in all of this, he thinks. He could lose himself in it, but he won't, because Vince's body is pressed up against his, solid and warm against his own. Vince will always save him, in the end.

"You'll always save me, yeah?" he says into Vince's ear, barely audible over the music.

"Of course," Vince says back, and Stuart can hear the smile better in Vince's voice than he can see it on Vince's face.

* * *

They're in San Francisco again, the morning mist hanging all around them, but it'll be a nice day, sunny as it always is in California. Vince rests his elbows on the railing of their hotel room balcony, wishing he'd remembered to get another pack of cigarettes. The last one had run out yesterday, and all he has now is a half-smoked pack of Marlboros, left over from Nevada.

Stuart's still sleeping, sprawled out on the bed, softly snoring. Vince is tempted to go for the Marlboros but doesn't. Instead, he watches as the morning light slowly cuts through the fog, dissipating it. He can almost see the Golden Gate Bridge from here.

He hears the fall of footsteps behind him. Stuart, probably. "Let's go," Vince says, not turning around. He loves it here, in San Francisco, but not enough to stay.

Stuart says, "Where to?" He doesn't sound surprised at all. His arms wrap around Vince's waist, his chin resting on Vince's shoulder.

"Doesn't matter," Vince says. "Let's just go." He's thinking they could leave the country, though. Mexico, maybe. Possibly even farther. He's always wanted to go to Japan.

The horizon stretches out in front of them, as far as their eyes can see.

 

FIN.


End file.
